


et dimitte nobis debita nostra

by Kat2107



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Savoy, So much guilt, Suicidal Tendencies, Treville is Muskepapa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3615420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat2107/pseuds/Kat2107
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Had Aramis been dead, Tréville could have buried the past.<br/>He could have drunk himself stupid and laid his men to rest. </p><p>Twenty Musketeers died in a forest in Savoy.<br/>Tréville remembers the name of each one, an eternal brand on his soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	et dimitte nobis debita nostra

“Pater noster, qui es in...” His voice trailed off.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena…” It broke.

“Our father in heaven…please...” With a pained groan Tréville reached out and grabbed a bottle of truly awful cognac, courtesy of a hole in the wall tavern he frequented when he absolutely did not want to be recognized.

It was Aramis. This deep into the night, when prayers were forsaken in favor of alcohol… it was always Aramis.

Tréville loved his men. All of them. They were the best bunch anybody in France could call his own.

But among all of them some stuck out.

Athos, for being his Lieutenant, a great man, a great leader of men and for all the torturous pain in his heart and all the nights he spent drunk, as reliable as a rock.

Porthos, the boy whose life Tréville had saved, only to forsake it on the next turn. The boy whose life Tréville had shaped and who finally had come home. As close to a son as Tréville would probably ever get.

And Aramis. The spectre. The man who would have been so much easier to bear, had he been dead. The man who singlehandedly drove Tréville to drink, simply by existing. Not for the fact that he seemingly tried to bed every woman in Paris, most of whom he absolutely shouldn't.

No.

Because he lived.

 

***

 

“We have Clouzet.” Tréville had dreaded those words. Sending two dozen men out as a diversion without their knowledge.. he had not liked it. He had understood the necessity, yes.  And he knew his men were the best France had. They'd should have been safe enough to deal with anything coming their way.

Then Richelieu had turned and looked at him, his face full of, for once, honest sympathy.

“I'm sorry, Captain. Your men have been attacked. We have no confirmation yet, but there seem to have been no survivors.”

And that was, what you got for working with the Cardinal.

He had been honest enough in relating what he had done. In reminding Tréville why. He had not though, accompanied the captain and his musketeers to bring their men home.

He had not seen Aramis, curled up in the middle of a killing field, blood and tears frozen on his face, skin tinged blue, eyes blank, Marsac’s pauldron grasped in stiff fingers.

Richelieu could play the games he did and plan his schemes, because he didn't feel the fallout.

 

Tréville buried them all.

He stood over every grave. Eyes dry, voice firm and spoke of honor and loyalty. And afterwards he sat at Aramis’ sickbed, wiped his Musketeer’s feverish face while the pneumonia ran its course. He listened to the fever dreams. He held him as he screamed himself hoarse. He calmed him as he cried. He bore Porthos accusing glances.

He bore it, period.

He knew, Aramis wouldn't die. God would not let Tréville out of his punishment. The names of his men carved into his heart and memory by Aramis’ relieved “Captain…” the hopeful smile, when he finally emerged from the sickness and before he remembered what had happened.

Had Aramis been dead, Tréville could have buried the past. He could have drunk himself stupid and laid his men to rest.

  


Instead, he had watched Porthos run himself ragged trying to save his friend. Had listened to Aramis scream through the dreams. Had listened to every tear, to every plea, every moment of insanity and grief and accepted it.  He had heard, noted and then squelched the whispers of the others, when they doubted Aramis ability to live through this. He had watched him latch onto the new man with enthusiasm close to madness, when Athos appeared with enough money to buy himself a commision and enough demons, to dwarf his newfound brother’s. He had watched - full of a father’s pride - Porthos shadowing both, protecting them both.

He had watched them grow, his Inseparables. He had carried his grief and his guilt with every glance at Aramis as the punishment his due. Alone and in silence.

He sometimes wondered where Marsac was. And then he watched Aramis claw his way back to life and he couldn’t help but curse the man who had abandoned him in those woods. Praying on the same breathe for God to be kind to him.

Those nights, when prayers were forsaken for alcohol he sometimes wished, Aramis had gone with him.

 

***

 

“WHO KILLED THOSE MUSKETEERS AND WHY?” The words echoed loudly. Tréville was swamped in their desperation,  Aramis pain, Athos cold fury, Porthos’ and D'Artagnan’s fear of the answers they didn't want to get, always wearing their emotions on their faces, both of them. That was when Tréville knew his second survivor had come home and he had brought the ghosts of his brethren.

He tasted tears, guilt heavy in his stomach. He wanted to let go. Forget the punishment he deserved. Selfish, yes. Just let it be over with and give his men the peace he owed them. He wanted to let Aramis know the truth. Blab around the best kept secrets of France because he felt guilty, because his men deserved better. Deserved it to be known, they died protecting France.

In the end, duty won.

No matter how much he wanted peace, France needed his protection.

So he kept silent.

 

It was Aramis alone that deserved an honest answer. Aramis alone, the confession of guilt was for. Aramis alone, who got it, because he was too stupid to let it go, endangering his career and his life, because he didn't trust Tréville. It was Aramis who was right and who would carry the truth to Marsac and lure him to the garrison. One last diversion to get him off the Duke’s track until he finally signed the damn treaty.

A final sacrifice and who was Tréville to give less than he demanded.

 

He had believed they would survive. He had believed his men would not just be sent to the slaughterhouse like a herd of sheep. But truth was, Tréville had been the one to sent them there and in Marsac’s eyes, when he came for him, Tréville saw every damnation, every word of disgust, every ounce of guilt reflected back at him.

And in Aramis’ he saw what he had never dared hope for.

 

***

  


“Marsac’s spirit died in that forest in Savoy five years ago.” Aramis’ voice, pensive with old grief and heavy with memories reminded him of all that the man had lost and survived against all odds. " Just took his body this long to catch up."

Tréville had buried twenty one men, stood over the graves of each of them, eyes dry, voice firm and spoke of honor and loyalty.

Not once had he spoken of duty.

The rain soaked his coat, rivulets of water ran under the breastplate of his dress uniform. He listened to Aramis ‘ prayer, swearing, not for the first time, to protect each of the men under his command. For whatever it was worth, to never sacrifice them needlessly, to never expect of them what he wasn't willing to give.

It was just the two of them between the rows. The only ones who knew what these men had done for their country.

“We're soldiers, Captain. We follow our orders, no matter where they lead… even to death.”

As the twenty second, his sole survivor, took the offered hand, grip firm, eyes dark with old wounds but tempered by forgiveness, maybe it was then he understood that Aramis had never been the punishment.

Aramis had always been the salvation.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> et dimitte nobis debita nostra - And forgive us our trespasses.  
> Pater noster, qui es in caelis - Our father, who is in heaven.  
> Ave Maria, gratia plena - Hail Mary, full of grace
> 
> Should you find grammatical errors or spelling errors or awkward word placements, please let me know. English is not my first language and spell checks can only do so much


End file.
